


Ellipsis

by Nununununu



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Don't copy to another site, Hurt, Implied Davits Draven/Cassian Andor, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Pre-Canon, Rape Aftermath, Repression, Self-Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/pseuds/Nununununu
Summary: His body is a tool to be used for the Rebellion. His body is a tool thathasbeen used for the Rebellion. Now simply in one more way than before.
Relationships: Cassian Andor/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	Ellipsis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).



> Includes implication of pre or one-sided Draven/Cassian, although Cassian's not about to admit to it.
> 
> Trigger warning for references to rape and non-detailed feelings of claustrophobia.
> 
> (Date changed to match author reveals; originally posted 28/09)

He doesn’t want to return to the base.

Cassian’s hands don’t hesitate on the controls of the little ship, even so – he doesn’t allow himself that much. He does find his jaw tightening but, with the ease of long practice, smooths his expression. Flattens it out into something hard and unperturbable, a mask Draven will recognise, but one the General is accustomed to. Cassian has utilised it in the past to conceal all manner of things. This occasion should be no different.

This occasion _is_ no different. He reminds himself that.

Cassian doesn’t want to speak to Draven either, which is unacceptable; the General will be expecting his report. He brings the ship down, lands steadily and with no complications, and looks unseeingly out of the viewscreen at the busy hangar bay for seventeen seconds, which is the maximum he can allow himself before his hands threaten to shake. His hands will _not_ shake. They will not. There is no reason for them to. Techs are swarming over several other ships between him and the rest of the base; there are already two heading over towards his.

He doesn’t allow himself to swallow. Takes a shallow breath in – his ribs hurt, which is ridiculous, seeing as he received no injury there.

He received no real injury. This is something else he reminds himself of. Nothing important, anyway; nothing that matters. On getting into the type of missions he has been doing lately, he always knew that there was the possibility of –

No.

He came to terms with it long ago. His body is a tool to be used for the Rebellion. His body is a tool that _has_ been used for the Rebellion. Now simply in one more way than before.

Hastening down the ramp once it’s open at his usual pace, Cassian keeps his shoulders tense to the extent that they usually are post-mission and exchanges a quick word with the techs. They are accustomed to his leaving promptly to give his report and do not seek to delay him; he is able to speak to them evenly, in a very close approximation of his normal tone, and does not feel any churning of his stomach or need to scream.

It would be completely inappropriate to do so in the middle of the hangar bay. It would be completely inappropriate to do so anywhere, and he will not.

He will not.

Leaving the hangar bay, Cassian walks through the base to Draven’s office on feet that feel distantly unfamiliar in the same way that his body distantly aches in key places – all of them areas that Cassian is not thinking about. He took a brief shower earlier, squeezed into the ship’s cramped little refresher, even if it felt like the walls were closing in on him.

The walls of the corridor feel as if they’re closing in on him now. This is something else that is ridiculous and so he ignores it in favour of re-editing certain phrases he will speak if Draven requires. Information he will edit in such a manner it will not appear edited.

Draven, when Cassian is standing across from him in the man’s repurposed office, looks at Cassian with eyes that seem to see straight through such an effort.

“I notice there are gaps in your written report,” He doesn’t scan Cassian’s non-expression, but in the corner of Cassian’s mind in which he notices everything, he is certain Draven notes everything he is repressing all the same.

This is the cue for Cassian to verbally report the details he refrained from including, those that will go no further than Draven’s office. Ones that Draven will nod to occasionally or, once, rub his thumb against his forefinger. His gaze on Cassian’s face throughout.

Cassian has never wanted less to be seen.

It was supposed to be straightforward, as such things go and in comparison to other missions he has undertaken. It was supposed to be a simple honeypot, one that shouldn’t escalate, although he had prepared himself for certain acts he might have to undertake in order to maintain his cover; his mark was a rich, influential man, who should have capitulated easily. What Cassian hadn’t anticipated was –

It is of no matter. This is what he informs Draven when the General pauses in their usual brisk routine to narrow his eyes slightly.

“You will inform medical of what happened,” There is nothing in his tone to make this a question, and yet this is how Cassian chooses to interpret it, as that way it isn’t an order. As that way he can fail to do so.

If Draven is aware of this, he doesn’t show it. Instead he does something else unexpected. His pause, this time, is longer, long enough that were Cassian someone else, he might find himself tempted to fill the silence with sound, to offer assurances or pledges in hope of distraction; shifting from foot to foot from the discomfort he feels.

Any discomfort he feels is nothing in comparison to the things he has done in aid of the cause. The things he no doubt will do in the future. The lives he will take; the people he will destroy. Guilt burns like stomach acid rising into his throat.

Why must his body betray him such? What use is it if he can’t control his reaction to the fact that the mission went wrong – it didn’t go _wrong_ ; he succeeded in his objective – or to the fact that he was obliged to perform in a manner that the ever observant part of his mind keeps striving to point out he is unsuited for?

What use is _he_?

If Cassian is unsuited for such work, then he will _make_ himself suitable. The bruises around his wrists mean nothing – only bruises and hidden by the cuffs of his regulation jacket – and the ones on the insides of his thighs will heal. His ankles still ache from where they were bound before –

He tells Draven about _before_ calmly, evenly.

The General will be aware that his verbal report still contained emissions, those edits that will be apparent to Draven for the very fact they would not be to anyone else. Cassian cannot say whether the fact the older man understands this is something he appreciates or not.

It’s of no matter.

Draven doesn’t ask. His uncharacteristic silence at this point lingers, somehow more unnerving on a level Cassian doesn’t acknowledge than if he spoke. Cassian makes himself look at the lines around Draven’s eyes, at the flat press of his mouth, and identifies the terrible possibility that the General is tempted to offer sympathy. He cannot –

If Draven offers him even a word of kindness, Cassian will –

No.

He will nothing. What happened was nothing. Or it should be.

“You have done enough for now,” Draven states almost gently, which sharply renews the urge inside Cassian to scream. Of course he hasn’t _done enough_. “Take the rest of the day and tomorrow, and if you need to speak to one of the base counsellors –”

“There’s no need,” The walls still feel as if they’re closing in on Cassian, closer, _closer_. He can’t stand the thought of his tiny windowless assigned room. “I’m ready for the next mission.”

There’s definitely something in Draven’s gaze then, in his whole expression, and Cassian finds he curls his fingers into fists behind his back in order to weather it, although he berates himself for the tell.

If Draven got up from his desk; if he crossed around it and perhaps put his hand on Cassian’s shoulder –

Cassian takes a breath in. Feels as if he is composed of cracks, webbed all over with them, and one kind gesture from this man will destroy him.

Someday the Empire will destroy him. Draven simply taps his thumb to his forefinger again. Cassian will do his utmost to destroy as much of the Empire first.

“If you leave early, you can begin your next mission in the morning,” Draven hands Cassian a discreet chip, for destroying once he’s accessed the data on it.

“The wait won’t be necessary,” Cassian packs everything away down inside him, along with the bone deep aching in his lower back, his gut, “I’ll leave immediately.”

He can read through the data once he’s back on his ship. Cassian is self-aware enough to know this is a form of running away. Placing himself back in a dangerous situation he is no doubt liable to find cause to regret.

Someday, if the walls close in too much on him, will he make his way out?

He has known the answer to this since he was six. And besides, like the rest of it, it’s unimportant.

Draven is still looking at him. For a moment, Cassian is absolutely certain the man will say those things he held back earlier. The sympathy that might break him. He strives to ward himself against it.

He will not be broken. He will not.

_He will not_ –

“Very well,” Draven nods, his gaze already turning back down to his crowded desk, “Dismissed.”


End file.
